Relics

by Relics (retail) (epub)

  ‘Hey, Perone put that suspect of yours on high alert, and I’m supposed to check him every fifteen minutes.’ The sergeant glanced at his watch. ‘Only a few minutes till his next check, so why don’t you do it for me? Who knows, maybe he’s ready to talk.’

  Lombardi knew the older man was just trying to cheer him up because he had seen the look in Lupis’s eyes and that boy wasn’t going to be talking to anyone. But what the hell! It would at least give him something else to do until the others got back. ‘Sure, I’ll check for you, but don’t hold your breath. I doubt he’ll say a word.’ He lifted the master key from a brass hook behind the desk and headed towards the cells.

  Sergeant Anonzo wagged a warning finger after him. ‘Hey, just talk. No funny business.’

  ‘You know me better than that, Sarge!’ Lombardi bellowed over his shoulder as he unlocked the thick, grey metal security door and headed on downstairs, all the while shaking his head in disbelief at the sergeant’s comment. In the old days, violence and intimidation in order to get a confession had been as prevalent inside police stations as it was out on the street, but the younger generation – his generation – had been brought up to believe that the only way to change things was to be cleaner in behaviour than the crooks. For young officers like Detective Angelo Barbosa and his contemporaries, this new ideology had evolved out of a hundred years of organised crime and corruption at every level. Acting like a crook made an officer of the law vulnerable and also open to blackmail. That was a cycle that, once started, never ended. No, the only way to ensure and maintain proper law and justice was to practise what you preach – something the older sergeant, although basically a straight shooter, had little appreciation of.

  Italy had seen big changes over the past thirty years, but, to Lombardi’s mind, it all began with the murder of an anti-mafia judge by the name of Giovanni Falcone in ’92. The fifty-three-year-old lawyer had relentlessly chased after the mafia and exposed their activities with all the tenacity of a pit bull terrier at a time when his colleagues were too scared of the reprisals such activity would bring. Falcone’s distinguished career climaxed in ’87 when the well-publicised Maxi-Trial convicted 360 Sicilian mafia. The judge then continued to drive organised crime out of Sicily until he and his family paid the ultimate price by being assassinated in a road bomb.

  In an interview given shortly after a previous attempt on his life, involving an abandoned sports bag and fifty-eight sticks of plastic explosive, Falcone had said, ‘My life is mapped out. It is my destiny to take a bullet by the Mafia some day. The thing is I don’t know when.’

  Falcone was proved absolutely right just a year later at the hands of the Sicilian mafia led by boss, Salvatore ‘The Beast’ Rina, who had wanted to make a point regarding picking a fight with the mob: you could start it, but they would inevitably finish it.

  His murder was tasked to an up-and-coming mafioso named Giovanni Brusca. Brusca was a vicious enforcer who had infamously tortured the eleven-year-old son of a mafia turncoat and had even sent pictures of the boy being beaten and abused in an effort to ensure the father’s silence. It hadn’t worked, however, and Brusca had finally strangled the youngster to death after eighteen months of enslavement before dissolving the body in a vat of acid. Endowed with such credentials, Falcone’s appointed killer and his gang had spent a week tunnelling under the road they knew the judge’s police escort would be taking and filled it with metal drums containing half a ton of explosives. The detonating button was said to have been pushed by Brusca himself as he and his lackeys watched from a nearby building. The explosion had ripped through the motorway with such force that it left a forty-metre-wide crater in its wake.

  Giovanni Falcone and his wife had died instantly, along with three bodyguards, but the atrocity produced an opposite effect to the one the mafia had hoped for. Within days, the Italian people, tired of almost a century of mafia violence, had rallied in outrage and pushed the country’s politicians into doing something drastic. The event had even inspired youngsters like Lombardi to join the police and reclaim their country’s honour from the hands of organised crooks.

  It was to this exact police station, and within these very cells he was now passing, that the scruffy, unkempt Brusca was initially brought to after being tracked down and arrested by elite members of the State Police’s special service in ’96. Indeed, Detective Barbosa had been one of the arresting officers, and Brusca had ended up in prison for life.

  As Lombardi approached the barred door of the suspect’s cell, he wondered about these Magi Angelo had heard about whilst he’d been tied up at the observatory. Could it be a new mafia family branching out? The young officer gave a deep confident grunt since, if that was the case, then the law would take them down just like they had done before. Because there was one thing that ran true with most gangsters these days: given the choice between long sentences or selling out their friends, 99 per cent sang like birds to cut a deal, and the other 1 per cent never again saw the light of day.

  He stopped at cell ten and peered into the well-lit interior to find Lupis perched at the foot of his steel-framed bed, with his back turned towards the door, resting against the bars. Lombardi was almost tempted to reach in and give him a little nudge with his fist but thought better of it. If he hoped to get a word out of this suspect, it might pay to be nice.

  ‘Hey, Lupis, how you doing? You need anything – food, a drink?’

  The young Magi henchman didn’t move an inch.

  ‘You know you’re going to be here a long time, so you might as well accept some hospitality.’ Lombardi’s offer was met with further silence. ‘OK, but remember I’m only trying to …’ His sentence trailed off as he noticed the suspect’s right hand hanging limply over the edge of his bed at an odd angle. But that wasn’t what caught his attention; the really strange thing was the suspect’s fingers. They were a light shade of blue.

  ‘Hey, Lupis!’ the young police officer called out before reaching through the bars and tugging on the boy’s shoulder.

  In one swift movement, Lupis lurched towards him and then collapsed in a heap, his head cracking loudly against the white-painted concrete floor. The prisoner’s face was a deep shade of bluish-purple, thick veins bulging from his temple, and both eyes had rolled upwards in their sockets, displaying numerous ruptured capillaries throughout the whites of his eyes. Lombardi fumbled frantically with the cell door key, but he already knew the boy was dead.

  An autopsy would later reveal that the boy had managed to swallow his own tongue, choking himself to death and, in turn, forcing Lombardi to reconsider his theory that Lupis was a mafioso, because a crook’s first instinct was to protect themselves at any cost – a concept this boy had shown little, if any, understanding of.

  Chapter 40

  Harker’s temple once again jolted against the metal roof of the yellow minicab, maybe for the tenth time since their journey to the Vatican had begun. Nando, the elderly yet surprisingly muscular driver, had initially apologised, blaming the suspension, but after the forth bump, he’d simply resorted to a sympathetic grunt.

  ‘There you go, sir. How’s about that for a view?’

  Harker tilted his head to peer along the wide expanse of Via della Conciliazione towards the wonderfully lit dome of St Peter’s Basilica in the distance. Even though he had seen this view many times before, it still gave him goosebumps.

  The largest church in Christendom, St Peter’s, was built originally in the fourth century by the Roman emperor Constantine and, today, could hold around sixty thousand people. Situated on the west bank of the Tiber, St Peter’s had dominated Rome’s city skyline for the past one and a half thousand years, and the very sight of it filled Harker with a sense of awe. Strangely, a part of him felt as if he was arriving home after a long trip abroad, and he resisted the comfortable feelings that began spreading throughout his body. This was not his home any more, and many residents of the Vatican would have him banished if they knew why he was here. Exce
pt one, that is; Cardinal Vincenzo, who was perhaps the most decent man Harker had ever known.

  On his first day here, Vincenzo himself had shown Harker, and the other new arrivals, around Vatican City, and the two men had immediately struck up a rapport. At the time, Vincenzo was in charge of overseeing the scriptural department, which maintained and stored the huge volumes of religious writings contained within the Vatican’s archive. Few people realised how many of these religious works had never even been examined, let alone been properly maintained, and that was a job that had gained importance only in recent years. The younger Harker had been fascinated by how much history was locked away within the library’s walls, and his keen interest had immediately been picked up by the cardinal. Vincenzo had soon taken Harker under his wing, and a close relationship developed between them. Even when Harker quit the priesthood, Vincenzo stuck by his side, and, although truly disappointed by his friend’s action, he had never berated him for it. But, just as Harker had kept his secret from Archie Dwyer, the same was true of Cardinal Vincenzo. Harker had never wanted to create difficulty between his mentor and the Church, besides, what good would it have done to tell him, since certain elements within the Church would never have changed their policy of closing ranks on a subject such as child abuse. Vincenzo would have been shocked, of course, because he possessed an extremely simplistic view of right and wrong, of good and evil – which was why, at this moment in time, he was the only person Harker felt he could trust.

  The taxi arrived in front of the red-striped barrier of Vatican City’s Petriano entrance on the edge of St Peter’s square. As a security guard waved them to a halt, Harker wound down the passenger window and poked his head out.

  ‘My name is Alex Harker, and I’ve an urgent appointment with Cardinal Vincenzo.’

  Thankfully Harker’s iPhone had survived the cold waters of Lake Bracciano, and he had managed to make a few calls from the taxi, in between concussions. He had first left a rather frantic message for Pope Adrian himself at the Vatican’s main switchboard, but, realising it would never be passed on, he had followed that up with a call to Cardinal Vincenzo who, although a little agitated, had agreed to meet him.

  The security guard eyed him disconcertingly before referring to the metal clipboard in his left hand.

  ‘Professor A. Harker?’

  ‘Yes, to see Cardinal Vincenzo. I spoke with him earlier.’

  On the other side of the taxi, another guard ran a mirror attached to a metal rod underneath the length of the vehicle. Then, satisfied the car was bomb-free, he gave a signal to his colleague who lifted the barrier and waved them through. ‘You’re expected, Professor. Follow this road all the way to Governorate building.’

  ‘Thank you, I already know the way.’

  The guard gave him an appraising glance and continued to urge them through. Though being part of the Vatican police force, the border cops were not required to wear the traditional multicoloured uniform of the Swiss guards. In the old days, they had become an object of such interest to tourists wanting to take photographs that a change of policy on clothing had been necessary. The thought made Harker smile. The old days! He had finally reached an age when the expression became relevant. Getting older wasn’t much fun until you learnt to accept it.

  The taxi headed on through the Piazza del Santano Uffizio and past the impressive walls of the archpriest’s residence. Everything in Vatican City was magnificent, as it perhaps should be, because it had been constantly rebuilt over the centuries to impress Catholics with its importance as the closest point on earth to the Almighty Himself, and it didn’t disappoint.

  The taxi came to a gentle halt outside the grand fortress-like Palace of the Governorate, which was the centre of executive power in the Vatican State. Situated directly behind St Peter’s and surrounded by stunning gardens, the Governorate was made up of many departments, all working in tandem to run the state’s day-to-day affairs, and its president wielded influence second only to the Pope himself. Not a bad contact to have in one’s arsenal. The palace itself had the feel of a parliamentary building, composed of three huge interlocking rectangular buildings looming over one hundred feet in height and casting a somewhat foreboding shadow across the white marble steps leading up to the main entrance.

  ‘Here we are, and no more than the ninety euros I said it would be.’ The husky-voiced taxi driver offered him a proud smile and tapped a wrinkled finger to his forehead. ‘I’m never wrong, you see, so that’s got to be worth another ten.’

  Too preoccupied to care, Harker slapped one hundred euros into the driver’s palm and stepped out of the cab. He had been getting ripped off by cab drivers all day, so what difference was once more going to make? ‘You’ve got a talent, my friend, no doubt about it.’

  The comment delighted Nando, who slipped the two 50 euro notes into his top pocket and, with a friendly salute, headed for the exit, the taxi’s frame wobbling from side to side on the geriatric suspension that had made the journey feel more like a sea voyage than a road trip.

  Harker waited for the taxi to disappear before making his way up the steps and through the thick bulletproof doors, heading into a wood-panelled reception area and then towards the priest who manned it.

  Harker always had a soft spot for the department of the Governorate, and not just because his old friend Vincenzo was now its president. To him, it was like the Home Office, Foreign Office, the Chancellery, and MI6, all rolled into one. Certainly, it was not as dark and mysterious as its British counterparts, but, nonetheless, just being there sent a frisson of butterflies rippling through his stomach.

  ‘May I help you?’ the priest’s unimpressed glance of appraisal said it all, and, in that moment, Harker would have sold his own mother for a clean white shirt and tie.

  ‘My name is Professor Alex Harker, and I’m here to see his eminence Cardinal Vincenzo.’

  The young priest was just picking up one of the grey digital phones from the front desk when a deep voice boomed out from behind him, a voice Harker knew all too well.

  ‘Alex Harker!’ Cardinal Salvatore Vincenzo strode down the marble staircase with his hands outstretched. ‘My old friend.’

  The two men embraced tightly. Harker had forgotten what a vice-like grip Vincenzo possessed, and the years had not diminished any of its strength. ‘Salvatore, thank you for seeing me at such short notice. It’s great to see you.’

  Vincenzo took a step back, his arms still firmly gripping Harker’s shoulders. ‘Let me take a look at you, my boy. You’re looking well.’ He stared him up and down. ‘Except for your taste in clothes. “Bop Till You Drop.”’ The cardinal chuckled as he read the words on Harker’s T-shirt. ‘You’re quite the fashion victim these days, Alex?’

  Harker laughed out loud. He had missed the cardinal’s honest dry wit, which seemed exceptionally British for an Italian. ‘What can I say? I’m a trendsetter.’

  ‘Still as cocky as ever.’ Vincenzo wrapped a fatherly arm around Harker’s shoulder and pulled him up the steps, his expression suddenly sagging. ‘Your timing is awful, Alex. You know we’ve got an important gathering here tonight with leaders from all around the world?’

  ‘It’s one of the reasons I needed to see you.’

  Vincenzo raised his chin inquisitively. ‘And what are the other reasons?’

  ‘Why, to see you, of course, old friend.’

  The cardinal gave him a gentle nudge on the back of the head. ‘Don’t lie, Professor, it doesn’t suit you.’

  Harker let out a grunt. ‘OK, maybe that wasn’t the main reason, but it’s still good to see you.’

  Vincenzo hesitated for a second before assuming a broad smile, his nostrils wrinkling. ‘The feeling is mutual, my friend. Now come to my office, and tell me all about it. It’s not like I have anything else to do right now.’

  Harker relished the irony in Vincenzo’s voice. The cardinal had a wonderful way of mixing sarcasm with genuine affection or sugar-coated insults as he liked to
call them.

  Thirty seconds later, and they were in the president’s office, Vincenzo pouring two glasses of orange juice from an antique glass decanter. ‘You know I don’t drink alcohol, so this is about as hard as it gets around here.’

  Harker accepted the crystal tumbler and took a sip. ‘It’s good enough for me.’ The sugar gave him a fresh boost of energy, loosening the stiffness in his shoulders that had been getting tighter since taking a dip in Lake Bracciano.

  Vincenzo clinked his glass against Harker’s and raised it to wish his guest good health before taking a generous sip himself. ‘So, Alex, what brings you to Vatican City?’

  Harker found himself grasping his glass firmly, surprised at how nervous he suddenly felt. ‘It’s about Archie Dwyer,’ he began. No sooner had he mentioned the name than Vincenzo’s eyes began to dull over, and his shoulders slumped. The relationship between those two men had been difficult, to say the least. Archie had been a little wild in some of his beliefs, and the Irish in him had inspired a lot of backchat. Vincenzo had even felt Father Dwyer might be a bad influence on the young Harker and had been as glad to see Archie leave the Vatican as he was sad to see Harker go.

  The president of the Governorate let out a deep uncomfortable sigh. ‘Ah, yes, Father Dwyer.’ He emptied his glass and began refilling it. ‘I know you two were close friends.’ He placed the stopper back in the juice decanter and turned towards Harker with genuine sorrow in his eyes. ‘But, Alex, his suicide and the manner in which he committed it …’ He shook his head woefully. ‘It is a difficult sin to forgive in someone of seemingly sound mind. The truth is that I’m not sure I would have attended his funeral even if I had been allowed.’